I Resolve...To Not Resolve

Another year has come to an end and I am happy to report that I haven't disappointed myself once in 2010. I know. I adore me, too. How have I managed this impossible feat? It's simple, really. I stopped making New Year's Resolutions about three years ago. Gone are the days when I'd sit down with a brand new journal and pen and plot out all the huge, unrealistic goals that I planned to meet in the new year. Ahhh, sweet freedom.

Have you ever taken a moment to examine the word 'resolution'? Broken down it's re-solution. The word is basically saying, "What? You didn't stick with this year's solution to the problem? Don't sweat it. Let's do it all over again!" It sounds wonderful, like a pardon from the President for killing a family of four, only the pardon is from yourself for not starting your own business or giving up caffeine. Yes, it sounds wonderful, but what happens when you catch a glimpse of yourself naked on December 19th and it's too late to lose that 50 pounds you resolved to lose? Trust me, even gastric bypass doesn't work that fast. So, you've disappointed yourself...again.

Not me. Not ever again. These past three years have been amazingly carefree. Except for the economy, but one can hardly blame me for that. Don't set yourselves up for failure. With my plan, you can make minimal effort and if you make any progress at all, it will be a victory. A small victory to be sure, but winning is winning.

And so, to encourage my friends, family, and fellow bloggers to join me in my quest to be happy in this new year and every new year to come I'm starting the No Resolution Revolution. It's just like making a resolution, only not. You take all the things you would normally resolve to do and do the opposite. Are you following me? No? Come on, keep up. It's not rocket science. Just do as I do.

In 2011, I promise (not resolve, see how that works?) to:
1. Eat as much as I possibly can in a 365 day span. Therefore, I also will
2. Gain so much weight that Weight Watchers will call me and offer their services free of charge.
3. Do absolutely no exercise and negatively impact my lung capacity.
4. Speaking of lung capacity, I will take up smoking again. Sure, I only smoked two cigs a day, but a carcinogen is a carcinogen, right? I'm sure it'll do the job.
5. Not put forth any effort toward being successful or achieving my dreams. Who needs a career that's financially and emotionally fulfilling? Not me, that's for damn sure.
6. Not pay any attention whatsoever to my husband and kids. They'll survive. If not, there's always the cat.
7. Let my house fall apart completely. I'm tired of spending my hard-earned money on this old ass house. Well, it's not exactly my hard-earned money, but still. I could start a nice gambling addiction with that money.
8. To be the most ungrateful bitch anyone has ever met. I've already got the bitch part down, so we're halfway there with that one.
9. To be the rootinest tootinest bible-thumpingest Christian this side of the Mississip. I almost wrote that whole sentence without laughing.
10. To actively, proactively, and reactively seek out alcoholism. That one shall begin before this post is finished being typed.

By the end of 2011, I will be a fat, lazy, alcoholic with no ambition, no friends, fucked up kids, and an iron lung. Damn! This shit is going to be fun.

I read a bumper sticker recently that said, "Where are we going and why am I in this handbasket?" let's just say that's my motto for 2011. We're not supposed to survive 2012, so why the hell would I go through all the trouble of doing all the things that everyone else is promising themselves to do. Fuck that. I'm going to have a ball during my supposed last year of existence and maybe do shit differently in my next lifetime.

Maybe.

Happy Fat Ass New Year to all my wonderful and loyal readers! I fucking love you guys! I'm never going to say that shit again, so you might want to print this out.

See ya next year!

Unqualified

As a stay-at-home mom, housewife, or as I like to call it, professional slave, I'm getting pretty sick of being underestimated. I'm an intelligent woman. Even at the ripe old age of pushing 40, I still have an abundance of potential. I'm smoking hot, if I do say so myself. And I do fucking say so. These extra pounds do nothing to detract from my inner bombshell. Fuck you if you think otherwise.

Why is it that people think that just because I haven't worked outside my home for several years now, I have nothing to offer?

To be honest, I have little desire to work for someone. I despise being told what to do, but as long as I'm treated with dignity and respect and I'm being paid, I can be a team player...for a little while. All I want is a part-time job paying decent money working somewhere between 9 am and 2 pm, so I can bring in a little extra while I'm waiting for someone to discover that I possess writing ability and talent and offer me millions of dollars to do something I love. Izzat too mush to ass? Sorry, I didn't realize that typed words can slur, too, when you drink too much.

For years I have worked several work-from-home, start-your-own-business, I-can't-believe-people-are-too-lazy-to-do-this-shit-themselves types of gigs. That means, I haven't been unemployed, I just don't work for others. Apparently, that renders me unqualified to work with people outside of my house.

I applied for a part-time job with McCormick. You know, the spice people.

This job was working 10 am-1 pm, Monday thru Friday as a taste tester for $12/hour. Are you freaking kidding me? You're going to pay me to taste food for three hours a day? I thought that shit was awesomeness dipped in chocolate with a side of Idris Elba. I had to send an email to some staffing company begging for the opportunity to apply. Then I had to fill out a long ass questionnaire about my food preferences, diet, willingness to taste unpleasant foods, name, rank, serial number, blood type, dress size and date I lost my virginity (November 12, 1988 if you're interested). Finally, I had to wait on pins and needles for their approval of me. It never came. They said I was unqualified.

Now, I don't offend easily, but if you want to know what 'useless' feels like, just let someone tell you you're not qualified to taste food. I don't even know what the hell to say about that. Am I also not qualified to walk? Breathe? Blink my eyes? This was a 'no experience necessary' job, but they were going to provide training. Who the fuck doesn't know how to eat? They could hire a toddler and still get an accurate account of whether something tastes good or not. It seems to me that they would have taken the first eight people who showed up clean, well-groomed, and literate.

But they're not taking me. Because I'm unqualified.

That fucking sucks.

This is my official boycott of McCormick spices. It's nothing but Spice Classics from here on out. Pardon me while I cry my poor, useless heart out. :(

Sick Bed Sex Ed

WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS A PICTURE OF PEOPLE IN THEIR BIRTHDAY SUITS. THEY'RE NAKED. IF YOUR DELICATE SENSIBILITIES WILL BE OFFENDED COME BACK TOMORROW WHEN THIS POST WILL STILL BE HERE, BUT MAYBE YOU WON'T BE SO UPTIGHT.

I'm sick. And not in my usual "what the hell is wrong with that woman?" way. I'm sick in the sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever so get the fuck outta my face way. I hate being sick for lots of reasons, but the biggest one is because I have to sit still. I suck at sitting still which means I don't get much rest which means I stay sick for longer than I should have. Does the flu know that it's three days before Christmas? Does the flu know that it ruined the Winter Solstice party my youngest kids and I planned? My nine-year-old cut paper up into confetti-sized pieces to serve as "snow" and we couldn't even use them. You mean to tell me that I don't get to vacuum up a trillion tiny pieces of paper? Darn.

I dragged myself to the computer today so as to interact with the outside world and I came across this video. Now before you even think about it, you must watch the video. It's imperative to your understanding of the rest of this post. And it's hot. Pay close attention to the condom wrapper that will appear in the lower right quadrant of the screen. Don't blink because it's only there for a second.

Hot, right? Wtf? What happened to the other font I was using?

Hopefully, your eye is keen enough to have noticed the Magnum condom package. Magnum, for all you rock-dwellers, is a line of condoms designed by Trojan for the comfort of well-endowed men. I feel I should say that again for those who may not have understood. MAGNUM is designed for the comfort of WELL-ENDOWED men. The problem is, most men think they're well-endowed. The truth is that a large number of Magnum users are not. Would you like to know how you can tell if you should save your extra 35 cents per condom and go with the standard size? No? I'm going to tell you anyway, Nubby, because it's bad enough that you suck at oral sex, but now you're flopping around in a condom that's two sizes too big and the shit is starting to piss me off. I'm sorry. I'll try to keep the flashbacks to a minimum.

If the condom slides off every time you extract your pocket rocket from a honey pot, you might have a little dick. I'm just kidding. It might not be small, but it is too small for those Magnums.

Have you ever blown up a condom like a balloon?

As you can see, standard condoms can hold a lot of...what's the word I'm looking for...weight. If your pecker is bigger than the above picture, forget the Magnums and go straight to hot air balloons. And please upload a porn so that the rest of us can see this mythical beast.

Don't get upset and click the next blog button, Wee Willy Winkie, all hope is not lost.

There are two ways in which one could consider his trouser snake to be "big": length and width (girth, if you will). Most women prefer a nice healthy girth. Change the word 'healthy' to 'hefty' for me. Length can be a good thing, too, but if you're blessed with a lengthy tube steak, please consider the following. The average unaroused vagina is 3 to 4 inches long. When a woman is properly aroused, her vagina elongates to accommodate the pork sword. So that takes it to, say, 5 to 7 inches. If your mutton dagger is longer than the depth of her vagina and you get a little overzealous in your love making, you will be slamming repeatedly into her cervix. That shit hurts. Stop it. All you girthy men pay close attention. The key words to either facet of well-endowment are properly aroused. You know how it's so much easier and pleasant to remove a ring that's stuck on your finger if you lubricate it before attempting to yank it off? Yeah, like that.

Please don't confuse the two. If a woman tells you that you are big, ask that bitch to be specific. Am I wide or am I long? It's big, but is it strong? Can I make you scream on a train? In Spain? While dancing in the rain? Men, it's important that you know which one she means, so that you can give her pleasure accordingly, with little to no discomfort (see cervix slamming above).

And lastly, for all you gentlemen who are neither average nor big, don't fret.

Not everyone is laughing at you. No, really. All you need to do is get really fucking good at cunnilingus and pack some big, powerful toys in your overnight bag.

And please, for the love of multiple orgasms, walk past the Magnums in the drug store.

I'd like to thank The Empress at The Ranter's Box for teaching me all the nice new references to male genitalia. I had fun with them. There are plenty of words for vagina on her blog, too, but since we've only recently gotten "permission" to say vagina out loud, I thought I'd stick to vagina instead of beating around the, um, bush. I swear, I didn't plan that.

Jesus, Take the Wheel

I feel the need to channel Carrie Underwood today because somewhere Susan B. Anthony is rolling over in her grave.

Have you seen this shit?


Just what every parent wants for their little princess...Video Ho Girl Barbie. What. The. Fuck. That's a statement, not a question. Video Girl Barbie comes complete with a video camera in her necklace, form-fitting night club outfit, Jersey Shore hair, bodacious ta-ta's, and a bootylicious ass you can bounce a quarter off of. That reminds me, Video Ho. Beyonce called. She wants her ass back.

When I was a little girl, Barbie was someone to be admired. Sure, she was a doll, but she taught little girls that they could grow up and become doctors or astronauts, drive race cars, work as flight attendants or say "fuck it" and fly the damn planes themselves. And all without a dime from Ken's bitch ass.

Who's bright idea was it to take Beyonce and Snooki, meld them together, dye her hair blond, give her a camcorder with which to record her naughty misdeeds, and sell her to little girls? I want names. And addresses. AND a five gallon bucket, a pair of pruning shears, two spark plugs and a Snickers bar. Don't ask.

This just proves my point that we're getting dumber. How does one "evolve" from a doctor to a video ho? I must have missed that part of the evolutionary chart. So, it goes: ape, neanderthal, cro magnon, human, whore? Is this what the rest of us have to look forward to? Because if it is, let me off at the next stop.

Maybe this was no accident. Maybe there is a little Impotent Old Man somewhere who decided to take revenge on the fairer sex by putting them in their place, so to speak. Maybe IOM is so freakin' pissed that women have gone from subservient, homemaking, child-rearing, I-can't-do-anything-without-a-man doormats to strong, maid-having, nanny-hiring, fuck-you-asshole-I-don't-need-you-for-shit powerhouses, that he thought he could reverse years of feminism with the creation of a doll employed in the world's oldest profession. Don't give me that look. Video Ho-ing is only one shot of Hennessy away from prostitution and you know it. My point is that he was trying to start over from scratch. Career woman to ho; ho to housewife. Then things would be as they were meant to be. There's a fatal flaw in his plan, however. Everyone knows you can't turn a ho into a housewife.

I would like to tie IOM's loosely hanging balls into a sailor's knot, put a red bandana on his head, and plop him naked into the middle of a Lil Wayne video being filmed in Crip territory. Then all the booty bouncing video vixens could point and laugh as they drove their pimped out rides up and down his sadistic spine.

No actual video hoes were harmed in the making of this post.

Stay away from the trunk of my car.

PSA: Dog Love is in the Heart of the Beholder

I get it. Your dog is the cutest thing since those funny looking Olsen twins. Aw, come on. When Full House premiered and they rolled out those buggers as one little baby "Michelle," didn't you think, "What the hell is that?" Eventually, we grew accustomed to their weird little faces and they became adorable to us. That's how I feel about your dog. He's cute in the same way as any creature who licks his own ass is cute---from a distance.

The reason I've got a bug up my ass about canines today, aside from not getting any for at least five days (sleep, that is. the other thing either now that you bring it up. thanks), is because some woman whom I don't know felt it necessary to send us a picture of her dog in a Christmas card. My husband knows her from work, so there are a couple ways I could look at this. On one hand, she could be some old bitty whose only companion is her beloved dog and who wants to share her love of said dog with the world because he makes her so happy. On the other hand, this could be hubby's other wife on the other side of town making sure 'daddy' has a picture of his cherished pet to carry with him at all times. Either way, I don't give a shit. I don't want a picture of that bitch's bitch in my house.

Let me clear something up for all you psycho dog owners out there: You love your dog. You want to dress your dog up in tiny designer outfits and carry it in your purse and take portraits of it and feed it caviar and oysters. You want to look up from the desk of your dead-end job and gaze into the blue/green/brown eyes of the loyal pup waiting patiently at home for your return. You. Not me.

There's a way to gauge whether or not you should send those $200 Petco portraits out to someone. Ask yourself a couple of questions. The first one should be, "Does this person know my dog?" If the answer is no, stop, calm your hyper ass down, remove the address label from the envelope, and step away from the postal worker. Your third grade teacher couldn't give less of a fuck about Trixie or how good she was when you took her to see Santa. The second question is, "Does this person love my dog?" Again, if the answer is no, save that precious portrait for someone who does. Don't waste your money; we're in a recession in case you didn't know. If you send a picture of your dog to someone who doesn't love him, it will end up in the trash. Or, and this is probably just me, it will get folded origami-style into the shape of a mouse and given to my cat. Sure, I may like your dog, it's not likely, but stranger things have happened. I may even think he's cute. But if I'm not falling all over myself trying to get to your house to play with the pwetty wittle puppy wuppy who's a cute dog? who's the cutest wittle puppy in da whole wide world? then I DON'T WANT A PICTURE OF YOUR FUCKING DOG.

As I was writing this, a commercial for an animal shelter came on. The dog was cute and the voice over was funny. Now that the commercial is over, I have no desire to ever see that dog again. See how that works?

While we're on the subject, the same thing goes for your kids. I don't know how many pictures of anonymous kids I have in my goddamn photo albums. A girl I worked with once gave me an 8x10 of her five-year-old. An 8x10, are you kidding me? What do you have a stash of gi-fucking-normous pictures stuffed in your bra to pass out like pro-life flyers? I had never even met the little heifer. Are people so proud of their little bundles of joy that they must insist on forcing their likenesses onto virtual strangers? Or are they so desperate for human companionship that they must create connections where clearly none exists?

Just to be clear any and all pictures of pets and children (let's throw in old people while we're at it) for whom I don't personally have love and/or affection will be trashed and burned, not necessarily in that order. You can waste your money, your Christmas card, your postage, and your time cutting those huge sheets into individual pictures if you want to. It won't last five minutes in my house.

Who the fuck is that? I don't know. Some dumbass I met on the bus stop gave me a picture of her twin rhesus monkeys. They were on a hit sitcom back in the '90's and then they grew up to vaguely resemble humans.

I apologize if this message is late and you've already purchased the Best Value package of pictures this year. Just think of it as advanced warning for next year. Besides, the dog will be a year older and a lot less cute. So will the kids.

Fuck!

I can't tell you how honored I am to do today's post. I have asked one of my favorite bloggers in the world to guest post and she has graciously agreed.

As you know, it is my mission in life to corrupt the world one 'fuck' at a time.


I believe the quickest way to do that is to start with the nicest, classiest people you can find and influence them so that 'fuck' becomes a regular part of their vocabulary. Like 'hello' or 'peanut butter' or 'I am a Christian.' You know, normal stuff. To that end, I have asked the sweetest woman I know to crash my blog and unleash a whirlwind of 'fucks' all over it.

This shit is gonna be fucking fun.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mynx, author of Dribble and Secret Pleasures. Enjoy!

Look where I have landed.  

On a “Bitch called Mum  Mom,  oops, nearly Aussied your blog Mrs Hyde.

Firstly let me tell you how fucking glad I am to be asked to guest here.  Did you see that? I said the “F” word and not even on the naughty blog I also have.

Surprise you did I?

I never really say “fuck” on my blog.  Well I must have a couple of times because one day I did one of those word cloud thingys and there it was. 

In real life I do tend to say it more, but usually only when I am really stressed.  You see, I am/was a bit of a goody two shoes.  But here I am, where not only am I allowed to say “fuck”, I can even say it lots and lots.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, hehehe.

Said it out loud in the car the other day.  Big C said “Mum, the word is Fudge, FUDGE”.  

Fuck, I am being told off for bad words by a 14 year old.

I must admit that reading it in a lot of blogs tends to make it easier to say.  If my blog wasn’t a secret from my real life I might have replied “Awwww but Mrs Hyde says fuck all the time and her kids don’t tell her off”.

When Mrs Hyde asked me to write this guest, I suddenly remembered a situation when I said Fuck a lot, and very loudly.  And surprised a fuck load of people in the process.  

As I was a full time Mum, I got involved in the boys Kindergarten (preschool for 4 year olds).  So fucking involved, I was made chairperson of the fucking parents committee.  (see how good I am getting at using the f bomb)

Part of the role was planning and organising fundraising and the committee decided this particular year to have a massive garage sale (yard sale?).

Weeks of collecting stuff from parents, promoting it around the area. Sorting pricing and storing until the day.  An early start (5 am) to get things ready.  A sausage sizzle to keep the men happy while the women browsed.

If you think this was hard work, you are not wrong Narelle.  

The partner of one of the women on the committee had volunteered to help.  Yay, we thought, needed a guy or two to be useful.  

How wrong were we?

While we women worked our tushies off, this guy (let’s call him John) decided it was much more fun to sit on his arse and play on the computer half the morning.

Anytime something that needed a guy happened, he became the invisible man.  

Finally the day was over and while taking the money to a room to count, John approached me and said,“Gee this was an easy way to make a pile of cash, we should do it every month”

And being the lady I am, I gave him the death glare and walked away.

Jenny, who had seen him speak to me, but not heard the comment came over and asked me what was making me look so steamed.

It was then, for the first time in anybody’s memory that I let it really rip.

“That fucking, John, he fucking thinks that this was a fucking easy fucking way to fucking make money and has suggested that we fucking do it every fucking month.  Well if he wants to fucking organise this fucking nightmare, he fucking can, because there is no fucking way we are doing it again for at least another fucking year.”

When I finally came up for air, I looked at the girls around me and their stunned faces.

And then we laughed.

And it became a bit of a legend.  How John made Mynx say fuck more times in one minute than she had said in an entire year.

And the fucking Garage Sale, well it made a shit load of money and became a fucking annual event. 

And John, he remained a fucking lazy dumb ass.

Wasn't that fucking awesomeness dipped in chocolate and deep fried on a stick? And my two favorite subjects: fuck and dumnasses!

Thanks for dropping by and entertaining us today, Mynx. You can bring your arse over here and Aussie my blog any day! Love you!

Oh! Had to come back and edit to add this on: if any of my other readers would like to guest on either of my blogs, please let me know. Just remember that there are rules for The Well-Fed Spirit, but absolutely no rules whatsoever for A Bitch Called Mom. Well...maybe one or two rules, but you know what I mean. Rabbit and The Empress, I know you're busy, but as soon as things die down over there, I'm coming for you two...

Bottoms Up!

Today is my six month bloggerversary! That's right, six months ago today I thought to myself, "What trick can I employ to get myself to write on a semi-regular basis? I could put it at the top of my to-do list. Nah, that hasn't worked so far. I could beg the writing gods to have mercy on my undisciplined soul. Maybe if I had a clue as to who the writing gods might be. I could start a blog. Everyone else and his great nana is doing it. Why the hell not?" So I created The Well-Fed Spirit because I wanted to reach out to women and give a voice to those who might feel they don't have one. Two weeks later, I started my regular, tortuous bout of PMDD and A Bitch Called Mom was born.

In the spirit of celebration, I have decided to piss off as many people as possible today. Those of you who usually find me lovable or at least entertaining might want to tighten your big girl/boy drawers. It's about to get bumpy in this bitch.

I was on my way inside my favorite grocery store, Aldi, yesterday when I noticed a protest going on just a few yards away. About 15 people with signs that read, "Church and liquor don't mix" and "God doesn't approve" were shouting at anyone within earshot about the travesty that was unfolding before our eyes. A liquor store was opening right next door to their church and they were not happy about it. And worse, God wasn't happy about it.

Let me briefly interject that I find it hilariously ironic that someone decided to build a liquor store right beside a church, but that's just me.

Anyway, a young man approached me as I struggled to shut the trunk of my van while maintaining a death grip on my reusable bags so they wouldn't fly away in the 40 mph winds. He politely asked if I would sign their petition to prevent the liquor store from opening next to their awesome, wonderful, sent-straight-from- heaven church. I told him I didn't really care whether there was a liquor store next to his church because hey, it ain't my fricking church, but that I would sign the petition if that would make him happy enough to skip his little ass out of my face.

"I don't understand, Ma'am." He was so well-mannered. His mama would have been proud.

I explained to him that it's all a matter of perspective. What if, instead of seeing this situation as a curse, they looked at it as a blessing. If there is a liquor store next door to your church, doesn't that give you countless opportunities to "save" the "sinners" who might have a "drinking problem"?

He said, "Ma'am, I can see how you would think that, but there are many members of our church, including myself, who are recovering from alcoholism and it's not a good idea to have a liquor store there while we're trying to worship."

At this point, I'm about two seconds away from cursing him out because he's called me "ma'am" twice already. Asshole. He starts to rattle off a list of the long line of alcoholics in his ancestry and I told him to save the drama for his mama. My father was both an alcoholic and a drug addict, my mother still is a drug addict, I have at least six other family members with addictions of some kind and my husband is just a shot away from being an alcoholic himself. I, myself have at least three shots to go before I get there, so I'm good. The point is I'm familiar with addiction, so you don't need to sell me on it, Little Preacher Boy.

Here's my question: at what point do we make addicts responsible for their own sobriety? For that matter, when do we make people, in general, responsible for their own lives? I understand that it is a daily struggle for addicts to maintain their sobriety. I applaud anyone who battles with this disease and manages to come out on top most of the time. Temptation is everywhere. How will a recovering addict learn to deal with temptation in a healthy, productive way if we shield them from it? How can they know the victory of overcoming an obstacle, if we hide the obstacles from them?

If you're an alcoholic and you work at a dentist's office in a shopping center that just so happens to be three doors down from a bar, are you going to quit your job? Petition that they uproot their entire business so that you won't have to walk past it everyday? Or will you walk right past it and, when you feel tempted, keep on going until you find an AA meeting? Isn't that what's supposed to happen? When you find yourself in a situation that you feel you can't handle without the assistance of alcohol, you need to seek the assistance of those who are there to support you because they all have been where you are and will not judge you. Right? If that's not how it works, you definitely won't find my ass parked at an AA meeting when I finally fall off the edge of this cliff. Fuck that.

If you walk down the street in any poor neighborhood in America, you will find a church on the corner. If you keep walking in the same direction, you will find a liquor store one block down. Keep walking and you'll find that the pattern repeats itself: church, liquor store, church, liquor store. This is where poor people find solace. If it can't be found in church, we'll just walk down a block and find it at the bottom of a bottle.

I wonder if the protesters would have been as up-in-arms if the store were opening a block away. Is proximity the issue? Is God okay with liquor stores being erected a whole city block away from the church, just not right next door? And wouldn't the recovering alcoholics still have to walk past the liquor to get to the Lord? Or vice versa?

What's your take?

To those who will un-follow me now, I say, "Hey, it's been real." I'll see you at the next meeting. To those of you who will stick around, I say, "Thanks for having my back whether you agree with me or not." And feel free to cuss my ass out if you think I'm being offensive. You know I'd extend the same courtesy to you. That's how love works: I piss you off, you put your foot up my ass, we have a good laugh or cry, and then start that shit all over again.

Happy bloggerversary to me and to The Empress of The Ranter's Box fame, who celebrated hers just a few days ago (November 31st!). You know what they say about great minds. She's my sister from another mister, so if you haven't had the pleasure of reading her blog, get your ass over there now!

I just thought of something...she started her blog roughly a week before I started mine. She has almost 200 followers and I have 25. Hmmm. Guess that means I don't know what the fuck I'm doing out here in this crazy blog world.

Oh, well...bottoms up!

Ten Things I Hate About You

I read a post yesterday (Hey, Barb!) where the blogger listed ten things she loves. I considered doing that. I've been extra specially bitchy lately and I could stand to impart a little gratitude. PMS is kicking my ass this month, y'all. I apologize to my male readers, but only a little. It's life. Deal.

After I read Barb's post, I tried to compile a list of things that I love. She had about three things on her list that I could have stolen, but I figured since I already hijacked her idea, I'd save any additional thievery for another day. I would like to post my list here for your enjoyment but...it doesn't exist. I gave up after about two minutes and decided to ride this extreme PMS to the end. Below you will find the list of:

Ten Things I Fucking Hate Only I Shortened It To Five Things Because My Attention Span Isn't That Long:

1. Stupid people. If you're new to this blog, you may not know of my strong dislike of the common sense-impaired. Read this and this and this to catch up. Don't worry, we'll wait. Well, I won't, but maybe my loyal readers will. Serves your ass right for getting here so late. While you're doing that, the rest of us will amuse ourselves with this hilarious video of Katt Williams.

Twenty on eleven, bitch! If I could get my hair as straight and bouncy as his, I'd have one less thing to bitch about. That would only leave 7428. Every little bit helps. One day at a time.

2. I hate when I'm trying to do something I shouldn't be doing, and a kid walks in and catches me. I quit smoking officially about five years ago. Unofficially, I still smoke the occasional cigarette or Black and Mild (the wine flavor is awesome). Mostly, I do it when some kid has catapulted me into crisis mode or when I'm out drinking with the hubs. He smokes cigars and I can't stand the smoke unless I'm smoking, too. Go figure. So the other day, I found out my sixteen year old hooked school and was "discovered" at his girlfriend's grandmother's house sleeping on the sofa in the middle of the day. Nobody was at home but those two and when they were found, the girl was on top of the boy...sleeping. Yeah, that's what I said. After comparing notes, the other mother and I concluded that they had, indeed, had sex.

I'm so not ready for this bullshit.

I ripped him a new asshole and then hightailed it to the liquor store where I purchased one Black and Mild. For those that don't know, a Black and Mild is like a small, cheap cigar that comes in various flavors for your ghetto ass enjoyment. As I was sitting in my parked car on the driveway smoking my cheap cigar and minding my own fucking business, guess who comes barreling out the front door having the nerve to look at me like he's disappointed? My late son. May his soul rest in peace 'cause there's not much left of his body.

3. I hate when I fold a load of freshly washed and dried towels and place them neatly inside the linen closet only to come back ten minutes later and discover that my once neat pile has been overturned because some kid or grown ass man needed to get his/her favorite towel from the bottom of the fucking pile. You don't understand. That shit is like nails on a chalkboard to me. No, worse. It's like leaving a teaspoon of butter pecan ice cream in an otherwise empty container. Somebody should die.

4. I hate when I want to be left alone and people don't take the hint. "Are you okay, Mrs. Hyde? Is something wrong? It sure seems like something is wrong. Are you sure nothing is wrong 'cause I'd hate to find out that something was wrong and I left it alone because you told me nothing was wrong." Let me make this clear: EVEN IF SOMETHING IS WRONG, IF I SAY THERE'S NOT, ASSUME THAT EVERYTHING IS PEACHY FUCKING KEEN.

5. I hate when people can't read my mind. If I know what's going on in my chaotic head, why the hell don't you? If you cared, you'd know what I was thinking. Okay, I'll give you one clue. When I bare my teeth like this, it means I'm considering sprinkling cat nip in your crotch and letting my cat go to town. Pop quiz: what am I thinking now? Damn shame...I thought you loved me.

This looks like a job for Jose Cuervo.

Award Whore

It's been five days since my last post and in that time, I've won two blog awards. You mean I don't even have to do a damn thing to win an award? Nice. I didn't actually win them per se. My awesome blog friends have given them to me because they think I'm hot shit. I guess that's tantamount to entering a beauty contest where your mom is one of the judges. That's fine by me. It's about time I had an unfair advantage over something.

The first award was from the source of my second guest post on a blog. Semi True Torystellar from Can U Relate granted me the Tanned Hide Blog Award

Because some crap should not be put up with. I love it! And if you get to spank an ass in the process, all the better. Somebody was checking out my blog when they created this award. This blog is the birthplace of inspiration for many. You're welcome.

The second one is from a newcomer to A Bitch Called Mom, Kara over at Visions Unto Myself.

This is, by far, my favorite because it involves cupcakes that I didn't have to bake myself. Now that's somebody who thought to herself, 'what does this bitch really need in her life?' The answer is both simple and straightforward, although my husband still can't manage to figure it out. Say it with me, moms....LESS WORK. Or better...PERSONAL CHEF. Or best of all...GORGEOUS MAN BEARING CAKE.

Thank you, thank you, thank you ladies for believing that I am award-worthy. Just in case you're wondering what the hell you were thinking giving an award to a bitch like me, let me ease your minds by saying you had no choice. You might want to pay better attention to the subliminal messages strategically placed on my page from now on. I won't say you're gullible or anything like that, but...

Speaking of cake...

Is it just me or does food taste like crap when you're PMSing? Every damn thing I put in my mouth (minds out of the gutter please) tastes like metal right now. It's gotten so bad that I've taken to eating on paper plates with plastic utensils and consuming all beverages from plastic bottles or cups. Is this some freaky pregnancy spin-off?

When I was pregnant with my daughter, I couldn't eat sugar. To answer your question before you get a chance to think about asking it, no. Neither my doctor nor my nurse midwife instructed me to stay away from sugar to preserve the health of my baby. They didn't say I was damn near diabetic or anything drastic like that. I couldn't eat sugar because every time I tried to eat something sweet, my mouth would be flooded with the taste of metal. Needless to say, it was disgusting. I mean I couldn't eat anything even remotely sweet. Not cake, not pie, not cookies, not corn flakes sprinkled with sugar. Nothing. The thought of having sugar anywhere near me made me nauseous.

As a result of my sugar drought, I only gained 10 pounds during my whole pregnancy and five of those pounds belonged to the baby. And I was a sweet person. I don't think I yelled at my husband or oldest son (the oldest daughter wasn't adopted yet and the youngest son was still a baby) for the entire 37 weeks. I also didn't curse out: cashiers, trash guys (more on them in an upcoming post), my father-in-law (whom I curse out at least twice a week), or Verizon tech support, not that they would understand me anyway. If you think that statement is racist, it's because you don't know our history. I actually had a conversation with one guy that went like this:

Guy Who Lives In India: Verizon Tech Support, how may I help you?
Me: Hello. I can't connect to the internet.
GWLII: I'm so sorry to hear that, Ma'am. I can help you take care of this problem. Garble, garble, crunch, crunch?
Me: I'm sorry. I didn't understand you. Can you say that again?
GWLII: I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't understand you. Will you repeat that?
Me: I didn't understand what you said.
GWLII: Please repeat that, ma'am.
Me: If I can't understand you and you can't understand me, how are you going to help me with my computer?
GWLII: I'm sorry, ma'am. Can you repeat that?

Dial tone......

I'm not going to start bitching about outsourcing, but if you must outsource, can you hire the people who speak the language of those they're meant to help? I'm just saying. If Indian companies were outsourcing to America, do you think they'd hire my non-Hindi speaking ass? I understand that some people read another language better than they speak it. I can read Spanish way better than I can speak Spanish, but still I'm not getting a job taking donations for Telemundo.

I digress. Oh, I was saying what an absolute pleasure I was to be around during my last pregnancy due to a lack of sugar.

Hold the phone! I think I just figured out this whole bitch thing.

No, wait. I lost it.



Oh, yeah, I guess I'm supposed to take off my hooker heels and put on my pimp hat, so here goes. I entrust the Tanned Hide Award to the following blogs:

Crazy Ramblings of a Tired Mom
stupid stuff i see and hear
The Journey

Neither of them put up with much bullshit.

And the warm and fuzzy cupcake award goes to:

Secret Pleasures (these are cupcakes of a whole 'nother kind)...

Happy Thanksgiving! Um...no.

As much I as do wish every one of you a happy and safe and peaceful Thanksgiving, this post is not about that. There are enough people writing about how thankful they are today, so you don't need to read about how grateful I am for my home, my family, my friends, and my blog family. And my health. And my cat. And for the ability to be a pig for about three days straight. No, none of that for me please. I came here to bitch.

Someone called me abusive today. Can you believe that shit? I'm a bitch; everyone knows that. The name of the blog warns you that the author is not some perky, midwestern housewife. But abusive? I think that's a bit harsh. I yell at people when they deserve to be yelled at. Scratch that. Most of the time what I'm doing is raising my voice to be heard over someone else's yelling. Or maybe I'm yelling at you because speaking to you in a calm tone of voice is not getting through to you, so I assume that you must be hard of hearing. I'm trying to help out. When a person is civil and fair to me and mine, I'm the same way towards them. Unless they're just stupid. Then all bets are off.

On Sunday, I was visiting with my sister and she had an old friend over. Well, she's not exactly an old friend. Her dad dated my aunt for about 15 years and our families became close. We used to pretend we were all related. You've heard of 'play cousins' right? When we were children, this girl bullied me mercilessly. She sort of  'made me' be friends with her due to the fact that I was afraid to be her enemy. So, also, was half the neighborhood. She was big and boisterous and she fought boys. 'Nuff said.

Now we're adults and I fucking hate bullies. I once almost got into a fight with a police sergeant because she was bullying and humiliating an officer, who wasn't even in her squad, because she was showing cleavage on her day off while she was hanging out with her friends. They don't like me to come to the policeman's lounge, but they can't ban me because hubby has a right to be there. Fuck'em. Back to the story.

The woman hasn't changed a bit in all these years. She's still big, she's still loud, and she's still tough. Trouble is, she's having a tough time finding people who are afraid of her now. We're adults, bitch. Nobody gives a fuck if you flap your wings and act like an ass. We're not afraid of you anymore because your secret is out: you're an insecure little girl trying to look big to keep from feeling so small. Plus, I could totally kick your ass now.

I don't go around starting fights with people, but I do know I'm extra hard on her. Don't judge me. I haven't worked out all my childhood issues. I don't have any patience for her and/or her bullshit. I have a really low tolerance for her and so I can only take her in small doses. That is why we're now having a problem because I had an overdose of this bitch. I allowed her to order a cake from me.

Long story short so you can get back to the table for another turkey leg, I took her 'deposit' (if you want to know what the deposit was, you'll have to email me. I'm not tryna go to jail over a cake) and put her order on my calendar even though I don't usually take last minute orders. In hindsight, my first mistake was going against my own policy. I texted her on Monday to make sure she still wanted her cake because she's a flake like that. I let her know that she needed to pick her cake up on Tuesday and if she didn't call or text me, I wasn't baking her cake because I can't be bothered with unnecessary shit. No phone call, no return text. I baked the cake anyway because I did have her deposit.



Tuesday came and went. She didn't call or show or text. I talked to her Tuesday night and she said she still wanted her cake and please don't sell it. She would come at 10:30 on Wednesday morning to get it. Ten thirty came, then 11:30, then 1:30. She called at 2:21 PM and said she was on her way to my house to get her cake. Was this bitch serious? So between that time yesterday and about two hours I go, I repeatedly tried to explain to her why I owe her neither a cake nor a refund, but she's upset. She called me unprofessional and then when I cussed her ass out, I'm abusive.

To quote my new blog friend Bruce: fuck you, asshole!

Now stop avoiding your crazy ass family and go enjoy yourself. If nothing else, you can get wasted and 'accidentally' reveal all your family's secrets to each other. That'll make a good story to tell the rest of us tomorrow.

Oh! BTFW, please check out my guest post over at Can U Relate? I don't want to give you any hints on what it's about, but needless to say, I killed that shit. Thanks, Semi True Torystellar for letting me crash your blog!

A Funny Thing Happened on My Way To the Porcelain Throne

Veggies chopped? Check. Cheese shredded? Check. Bundt and cupcakes baked? Potatoes peeled? Turkey thawed? Check, check, and check? Why are you thawing your turkey so early, Mrs. Hyde? Three words: it's not mine. Not only do I have to prepare a Thanksgiving feast for my own household, including cakes and pies and make not one, but two banana puddings for my mother-in-law, but I also have to roast a turkey, bake stuffing (well, technically it's dressing since I'm not putting it inside the turkey), and make a Strawberry Shortcake for my sister. My baby sister claims she can't cook, so every year I make extra stuffing, cakes and sometimes pies for her household as well. I'm pretty sure it's a rouse because her kids don't starve the rest of the year. Mysteriously around Thanksgiving, though, she can't seem to remember what that big white thing in the kitchen is for. I love her anyway. Who cares if my eyes are bloodshot and I have the worst migraine I've had in months?

Speaking of turkey, it's time to fulfill the conditions of the Shiny Turkey Award I received from Jumble Mash. To review, I need to tell a story of food, cooking/baking, intoxication, and/or the holidays. If I had a story that encompassed all those subjects, that would be freakin' awesome. But I don't. I have an assload of falling down drunk stories (about myself and others) and I will tell you one of those right now.

About three years ago (or maybe more. Who knows? I've killed many brain cells in that time), my husband took me out to celebrate my birthday. He'd asked a few of our (read: his) friends to join us in the celebration. Keep in mind that I had just recently gotten my 'drinking legs' as I like to say. The night was set for excitement and fun. First, we went out to one of those hibachi style restaurants where they grill the food in front of you. Having known that we were going out to eat, I hadn't eaten much that day. Wish I had remembered that before I ordered a Zombie. And then another.

Some other woman at a different table was also celebrating her birthday, so when they started singing that lame ass song to her, I chimed in. Really. Loudly. And before you ask, no, I didn't know the words. I clapped, I waved somebody's cigarette lighter in the air. The brain cells that remembered her name are dead now, so let's just call her Becky. At first Becky was laughing along and cheering me on. Apparently, she'd had a zombie without having first eaten, too. Then you could tell she was a little annoyed because I wouldn't shut the hell up. I knew she was annoyed. I didn't give a fuck. Once hubby managed to settle me down, I told him he just had a stick up his ass because his best friend (also celebrating with us) had fucked more women at our table than he had. That went over well, needless to say. I didn't give a fuck.

Then we went to the Policeman's Lounge, where cops can go and morph into alcoholics for next to nothing. I consumed even more drinks and got into an argument with a cop. Hey! Not my fault; he was a prick. He was hitting on my friend, who has the equivalent of two black girl asses, and she wasn't interested. Being the awesome friend that I was, I told him to back the fuck off my woman before I kicked his ass. At first he found it amusing, but of course I took it too far. I proceeded to tell him that my girlfriend didn't want him because he had a little dick. But not only did he have a small pecker, but that it was so small that my dick was bigger than his. He didn't particularly like that, so he argued with me until my big black husband rolled up behind him after which he promptly shut the fuck up. And I called him a punk bitch as he walked away. We had to leave the policeman's lounge.

You think this story is over, don't you? Wrong. After we got kicked out of the lounge left the lounge willingly, dutiful hubby wanted to make sure everyone got home safely. I was looking a little green around the gills by then, so he dropped me off at home and followed our friends home. He carried me up the stairs and I told him I needed to use the bathroom and I was perfectly capable of going by myself. He made sure I made it to the toilet and asked me if I was okay.

"I'm fine," I assured him. "Make sure our friends get home." He left me in the bathroom. About 30 minutes later, I awaken to a knock on the bathroom door.

"Are you okay?"

"I said I'm fine. Go take them home so you can hurry back."

"Sweetie, I've already gone and come back. Are you still on the toilet?"

Yes, I was asleep on the toilet. I say he came back 30 minutes later, but for all I know, it was three hours. He could have sexed one bitch six ways from Sunday or six bitches one way from Sunday and I would have been none the wiser. I opened my mouth to answer him and out came everything I'd ever eaten in my life. Good thing the bathtub is right next to the toilet. I was sick for three days after that.

That's my story of intoxication and holidays, if you count my birthday as one.

Note: While all of this did happen, it did not occur on the same night. I have condensed three stories for your enjoyment. You're welcome.

Writing Debut!!!!!!

OH EM GEE! I am so freakin' pumped! Mynx just posted my story on her naughty blog, Secret Pleasures and, so far, people actually like it!

I came on here to tell you all about the Shiny Turkey Award given to me by the too-cute-for-words Jumble Mash (I realize that young adults don't like to be called 'cute,' but trust me, when you're my age you'll pray every night for just that). I'm supposed to tell a story about food, intoxication, cooking, and/or the holidays. I have a doozy about intoxication, of course, but I'm too excited to write about it right now. I promise I will do it tomorrow if I can get some sleep tonight. I may just be up all night.

Please check it out. I hope you enjoy it!

Do you think I posted enough links?

TV-jacked

I was in my bedroom, minding my own business watching a tivo'ed episode of Modern Family and catching up on my favorite blogs. I looked up mid-comment and realized I was now watching football. Not wanting to stop reading/commenting/pissing my pants, I updated my Facebook status thusly:
Mrs. Hyde (not my real name, btw. shock and awe!) is trying to figure out how she started out watching a tivo'd episode of Modern family and ended up watching football.
Hubby's comment: cause you love the NFL
Me: Um...no.
Him: how bout the basketball game?
Me: It's cool. I'll just blog about how you're forcing me to watch sports.

Keep in mind that we're sitting right next to each other during this FB exchange. So, now I'm blogging about his forcing me at gunpoint to watch shit I don't want to watch and he's pissed 'cause I'm not paying him any attention.

Tough titty said the kitty, but the milk's still good.

I need to concentrate. I trying to tweak my erotic guest post for Mynx' blog Secret Pleasures fuck-you-very-much. It ain't easy striking the right balance of sexy and dirty, and the last thing I need is to be watching hot, sweaty, athletic rich men while I'm trying to create soft core porn.

Wait. Hold the fucking phone. That's exactly what the hell I need! Recharge those batteries, ladies! I'll be back with my story shortly. I've got massive cocks to spot!

I Ain't Afraid of No Ghost

Have you ever scared yourself shitless? I don't mean you're in the house alone and you walk past a mirror and startle yourself (I've done that, too btw). I'm talking Nightmare-on-Elm-Street-afraid-to-take-your-ass-to-bed scared. No? Too bad. I do that to myself all the time. Last night I did it to myself by taking pictures in the dark. Let me explain.

Ever since I was a little girl, I've been fascinated with all things spooky: ghosts or if you prefer, spirits, the supernatural, the occult. I started reading Stephen King novels when I was eleven years old and I haven't stopped yet. There was this urban legend that if you looked into a mirror in the dark and said, "Bloody Mary" three times, she would appear in the mirror behind you and kill you. I did that. She didn't come. Let's not talk about the fact that I had a death wish as a child. I absolutely love being scared out of my mind. Don't ask me why. So, fast forward today to my 29-year-old self (shut up) and I'm still doing things to scare the hell out of myself.

I have some friends who go ghost hunting once a month. They have been trying to get me to go for awhile now. Yeah. Good luck with that. Going to a graveyard at night and taking pictures in the dark is a little too up close and personal for me. They take their digital cameras and some thingy that lets them 'hear' and 'talk to' the spirits. Then they come back and show me pictures with thousands of orbs in them and suck me in with their ghostly tales. I love to flip through all their pictures and hear their stories when they come back, but going to a graveyard? At night? I think I'll pass.

A couple days ago, one of my ghost hunting friends suggested I take pictures in my backyard. Since it's pitch black out there at night, it's a perfect setting to catch orbs flying around. In case you don't know or haven't at least figured it out by now, the orbs are spirits, ghosts, the dead floating around undetected until you take a flash picture of them in the dark. And she wants me to do this in my backyard? Has this bitch lost her mind?

Apparently not because I did that shit. I saw two orbs floating their happy asses around my yard without a care in the world.


Can you see them? One is directly in the middle of the picture and the other one is off to the left. That one, technically, is in my neighbor's yard. I got so excited that I decided to take some pictures inside my house. Dumbass. What a stupid, stupid thing to do.

I tried to point them out, but it's really tiny.

AND

Right beneath the picture on the wall. There's also one on the curtain. 

Okay, I suck at the picture posting/paint thing, but they're there, dammit! And not one word about my messy ass house.

What was that? Oh, the cat just walked up the stairs.

Anyway, now I know that there are spirits floating around in my house. I always suspected 'cause weird shit happens in here all the time, but suspecting and knowing are two entirely different animals. The doorbell rings and no one is at the door. My kids leave the satellite receiver on and when I go to turn it off, it turns off by itself. Why the hell does the 'spirit' let me walk all the way over to the receiver if 'it' is going to turn it off itself? I know I need the exercise; I don't need some fucking entity from another dimension to tell me that. And now I see these orbs flying around. I think I'm about to jump on the bandwagon with my friend Mynx and look for a new house.

It was about 12:30 AM and I was sleepy as all hell, but I was afraid to go to sleep. Hubs was working the second half of his double shift, so it was just the kids and me. The kids were knocked out in their own beds, in their own rooms. Even the cat didn't want to be anywhere near my ass. He looked at me like, "You did this shit to yourself, bitch. You're on your own." I had visions of spirits dancing above me while I slept and making noises just to fuck with me. Actually, I did hear the floorboards creek a few times. Finally, I got too sleepy to care and fell asleep. I awoke in the morning wondering what the hell I was so afraid of. There's just something about morning that makes everything seem okay. It's so...non-threatening. So unlike the evil nighttime.

I'll give you until the end of the day to stop laughing at my dumb ass. Then pray to every god you know that I manage to fall asleep tonight.

Honestly?

I am very honored to have received a blog award, for honesty no less, from Semi True Torystellar at Can U Relate? Here it is:



Ain't it grand? If I'm to be completely honest, and of course I have to be now, this is the fourth award I've received from the awesome people who dare to read my chaotic ramblings. Sometimes those awards come with conditions and I almost always flake out on those obligations. What can I say? I'm a fucking rebel. This doesn't mean I'm ungrateful; far from it. It amazes me that there exists in this world people who want to hear what I have to say.  I am deeply humbled by your loyal readership (all of you) and I will do my best to stay as bitchy and vocal as I possibly can. Hug, hug, kiss, kiss. You know the drill.

In the interest of honesty and going totally balls-to-the-wall, I will honor the conditions of this award. I have to list ten honest things about myself. This is going to be hard 'cause I don't want to just list any old thing. People have to read this crap, so I at least want it to be interesting.

Hmmm. Ten whole things? How about five? Okay, okay.

1. I hardly ever answer my cell phone or return phone calls. I'm sorry, but I have way too much shit to do to be on the phone all day. Send me a text or an email. I will return a text. I might return an email.
2. I don't watch the news. Being inundated with up-to-the-minute negativity isn't exactly my idea of a good time.
3. Here are some of the jobs I've had: barmaid, daycare provider, phone sex operator, substitute teacher. My work history is but a small indication of the good vs. evil battle I fight on a daily basis.
4. I have a 26-year-old sister whom I've never met. Papa was a rolling stone. He rolled his ass to Virginia for awhile, met a woman, fathered a child, died and didn't leave any information on how to find her. Oprah won't help me and apparently, baby sis hasn't heard of social networking. So, if anyone knows a Jessica Brown in or around the Richmond area, give a holler. How many Jessica Browns can there be in Richmond?
5. I can spot a big dick from a mile away. Oh, now you're awake. I didn't just do that for shock value, it's actually true. I have a penchant for sniffing out the heavily schlonged. It's the gift that keeps on giving.
6. I've been trying to complete this post for two hours, so I'm going to stop now and come back in ten years when I think of more things.
7. My mother has been a drug addict for over 30 years. If you can't say anything else about her, you can say that she is consistent. When she decides to do something, she sticks to that shit like glue. She sold me to a man when I was eight years old. That's all I have to say about that (imagine I'm Forrest Gump).
8. My favorite color is purple. Yeah, I know that's lame, but #7 is a tough act to follow. Okay, I'll give you a real one. I hate crying. If you make me cry, be sure to sleep with one eye open for the rest of your life.
9. I have a girl crush on Portia de Rossi. I like that she's a little bit insane just like me. With my muffin top, four kids, and empty bank account, I'm sure I could give Ellen and her millions a run for their money.
10. I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy. Give me a break, I tried, didn't I?

It's not a requirement to pimp out blogs, but I'm going to do it anyway. These blogs don't get as much recognition as they should, so please visit and follow them if you like what you see.

Rants from the Hormonally Challenged Love her and I'm sure you will, too!
The Well-Fed Spirit This bitch is AWEsome!
Simple Dude in a Complex World He doesn't follow this blog, but don't hold that against him.
Jumble Mash Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy.

All right, so, that's it. I know I cheated a little bit, but when you're a control freak like me, you have a hard time being vulnerable. Some of my fellow award recipients were worried about losing followers if they posted true, honest-to-goodness things about themselves. I'm not. If you don't love me for the bitch I am, then fuck you and I'm happy to be rid of you.

But if I come back on here in the morning and all of you are gone, oh, I will stalk you.

Dear Ass Clown

Let me start by saying that I have made a sincere effort to let this go. I wanted to chalk it up as one person's opinion, but I can't. Yesterday, I read a post that chapped my ass so badly that all the cocoa butter in the world won't help. The woman dedicated an entire blog post to a letter she wrote to "sorry ass mothers". In said letter, she unleashed a tsunami of scathing remarks toward mothers who: 1. don't strap their children in seat belts, 2. smoke inside the car with their children on board, and 3. scream at their children.

It's never okay to put the safety of children at risk, you may say. I agree. Secondhand smoke is very bad for a child's lungs, or anyone's lungs for that matter, you may respond. Again, I agree. Why would this upset you, Mrs. Hyde?

I'm so fucking glad you asked!

There are several reasons why that post bothered me. I'll give each its own bullet point and subsequent explanation.

*Don't presume to tell a mother how to be a mother.
I get that it pissed her off to see a small child not strapped in his/her car seat. And I understand her concern for the child inhaling the toxic fumes. But did anybody notice that this self-righteous woman didn't bother to voice her opinions to the mothers themselves? No? You know why? Because she would have gotten her ass handed to her in a used McDonald's bag. Everyday you see people doing stupid shit. There are dumbasses everywhere, but that doesn't give you the right to tell them that they are dumbasses, at least not without accepting the fallout that will surely come. That's why we don't do it. We might give them a dirty look, shake our heads in disgust, but if you're not going to call them on their bullshit, shut your fat ass pie hole. Maybe the child was strapped in, but as small children tend to be curious and mischievous, maybe the child unstrapped himself. With the cigarette-smoking mom, as far as I'm concerned if you've never had a nicotine addiction, you have no opinion. I'm going to let you in on a little secret: moms are human. Which brings me to my next point.

*Why in the name of sweet June Cleaver is the whole world so hard on mothers?
A mother can't step the tiniest bit outside the line without having the wrath of God brought down on her. It's like we're not human, and therefore not allowed to make mistakes. Don't yell at your kids, don't let them watch TV, don't feed them sugary cereals? WHAT? If you think I won't plop a bowl of cereal in front of a kid when I'm too tired to cook or tell them to go watch Spongebob so I can take a goddamn bath, you are sadly mistaken, asshole. While I do know that opinions are, in fact, like assholes, it leaves me wondering why all the bitter disdain for 'bad' mothers, but none for 'bad' fathers? Is it okay for deadbeats to abandon their children and not pay child support? Is it all honky fucking doory for a man to neglect his fatherly duties. If this woman had seen the child unstrapped in the car with his father, she would have shaken her head and said, "Hmmph, men!" and left it the hell alone. She wouldn't have thought twice about his smoking while driving his babies around because at least his ass is present, right? If a man screams at his kids, they call it tough love. And that shit brings me to my final point.

*Yelling at your kids is absolutely necessary.
Okay, not all the time, but sometimes, yes. It's very necessary. There are all different kinds of scenarios I could cite as excellent times for yelling, but I'd be here all fucking day and my kitchen floor isn't going to mop itself. I'll just say this: yelling at your children is the litmus test to make sure you are paying attention. If you're yelling at them, that means you caught their little sneaky asses doing something they had no business doing. You know why my kids aren't making pipe bombs in the basement? Because if it gets quiet for more than five minutes in this house, I know somebody is doing some shit they shouldn't. So, after five minutes free of bickering and mom I need money for xyz, my mommy senses start tingling and I go on a bullshit hunt. No, mom, I'm mixing these chemicals for my science project. Bullshit! No, mom, this isn't a hit list. These are all the people I'm inviting to my birthday party. Bullshit! No, mom, I'm not forwarding naked pictures of my former best friend to the entire sophomore class. Bullshit! I'm not saying my kids don't ever get one over on me, but if they do, it's not for long. I have a special brand of bitchy, guilt-inducing, disappointed, I-will-kick-your-assness that my kids try to avoid, if at all possible.

And no self-righteous, judgmental, childless, mean-girl-turned-fuckwad is going to take that away from me.

Some Of My Best Friends Are White

Well, it's the holiday season. That means I'm about to be busier than a toothless hooker on pay day. As soon as November 1st rolled around, the cake, pie, and banana pudding orders started pouring in. Oh, I'm not complaining because I sure as shit appreciate the money. The banana pudding recipe I use is an easy, no-cook recipe that I got from the Food Network. I tell people this and still they would rather pay me $25 to make one for them than just pay $10 for the ingredients and make it themselves. Who the fuck am I to stop them from giving me their money?

Anyway, I didn't come on here to talk about dessert; I just wanted you to know why my posts may or may not be few and far between for the next two months.

What I really want to talk about is something that happened to me at the grocery store yesterday. That's a bit melodramatic; nothing happened to me. I just had a curious encounter with a bitch at a market.

Are you familiar with Aldi? 
It's a discount grocery store with franchises all over the world. If you shop for more than two items at a time, it will be necessary for you to "rent" a shopping cart for twenty-five cents. After your shopping is done and your bags are loaded safely in your car, you return the cart to the corral, stick the little chain thingy in the slot on the handle, and your quarter is returned to you. If, upon returning my cart, I notice another shopper about to enter the store, I'll offer them the one I have and they'll give me their quarter.

I'm bored to tears, too, but I had to make sure you knew what I was talking about before I told you the story. Okay, so I saw this family of three about to get a cart as I was returning mine. I offered them my cart and they took it. The husband thanked me and offered me a big smile. The kid even gave me an appreciative grin. The mother, who neither smiled nor thanked me, positioned the quarter about a foot away from my hand and dropped it into my palm. She then raised her hand even higher and moved her whole arm in a backward arc (away from me) before dropping her arm to her side. She took painstaking care in making sure she did not touch my hand. Then she pursed her lips, wrapped her jacket tightly around her bosom, and walked into the store.

When I go grocery shopping, I try to dress as comfortably as possible. I am buying food for a family of six at several different stores and that shit can take forever. So I'll be damned if I'm going in there in my Sunday best only to smell like a mixture of seafood and laundry detergent by the time I leave. But there is no way I looked like the kind of person that you wouldn't want to touch.

The first thing I thought was, "No, bitch, the black doesn't rub off." Then I thought that was a little unfair. Having that thought made me realize that I can be overly sensitive, thinking that white people are judging me all the time. Logically, I know that's not true. My head knows that most people, regardless of race, have way too much shit to deal with everyday to bother themselves with my weave, or lack thereof, my parenting skills, or my grammar. But my heart worries about it just the same. I know, it's sad. I didn't even realize how much the opinions of Caucasians mattered to me until now. And here I was thinking I was evolved.

When I was a little girl, my mother could take a lot of our crap, but she would kill us if we embarrassed her in front of white people. One of her favorite things to say was, "Child, if you embarrass me in front of these white people, so help me God, I will beat the black off you." And she wasn't bullshitting either, so we sat our asses down and acted like we 'had some sense.' Parents sometimes don't realize how much impact their words and actions have on their children. I'm damned near forty (don't EVER tell anybody I told you that) and I'm still afraid to embarrass my dead mother in front of the white people.

I understand that this probably makes some of you uncomfortable, but if we don't talk about our differences, we'll always be afraid of them. Where the hell has that fear gotten us so far? I don't know about you, but I can't fucking stand being afraid.

Now back to my new best friend. I've come up with some (semi) PC reasons why this uptight woman didn't dare graze my hand with hers:

1. She doesn't know my ass. I'm not too keen on touching strangers either, so how the hell can I be mad at her?
2. She's a crazy germaphobe. You know those people who are afraid to even leave the house because of all the potential germs they might meet. She did seem awful pristine for the grocery store.
3. She thought I was evil. You think maybe I scared her with the huge gothic cross I sometimes wear around my neck? You know, you can't be too leery of people who don't wear 'normal' religious paraphernalia.
4. She was overwhelmed by my sexy. And who the fuck isn't?
5. Maybe, and I am leaning toward this one, she thought, "Eek! There's a big, sexy black bitch I don't know wearing the goddamn mother of gothic crosses! Think of all the fucking germs she must have!"

Feel free to post any reasons you might come up with. I don't offend easily, so have the fuck at it. Afterwards, we'll hold hands and sing, "We Are The World."

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang

You remember that childhood rhyme, right? "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, sittin' on a fence, tryna make a dollar out of fifteen cents..." Yeah, now you remember. I hate that bitch. Well, I don't hate her so much as I hate that I've become her.
 I don't know what the fuck this pic is about. Just found it on Google images.

Wait...is CCBB a prostitute? I just realized mid-thought, that I'm pretty sure that bitch was a whore. I mean, who the hell else sits on a fence? Tryna make a dollar out of fifteen cents? And how would anyone else, who had nothing better to do than hang out on fences actually make any money? She has to be a whore! I can see it all in my head (insert dream sequence)...

An eighty-two pound crackhead dressed in skinny jeans, a dirty lime green t-shirt that says I ♥ the 80's, high top Reeboks, and a red feather boa sits atop a rusted and damaged chain-link fence. Her legs swing side to side as the tremors begin to kick in. It has been two whole hours since her last hit and in that time, she hasn't managed to convince anyone to let her earn the money she needs via a toothless blowjob. She absentmindedly rubs her front right pocket. The dirty imprint of the only money she has in the world strains against the denim of her tight jeans: three nickels. She must be losing her touch. A toothless BJ used to be like, well, crack.

A familiar cloud of smoke engulfs her. She raises her head to the Heavens and inhales deeply. Damn! She simultaneously loved and hated the smell of crack smoke. Burning diamonds and poverty. It was both titillating and depressing; exhilarating and sickening. Her tremors, a combination of crack cocaine withdrawal and the sting of the cold night air against her bare arms, grow increasingly violent. She watches impatiently the stupid whores who jump at their pimps' becks and calls. Yes, daddy this and no, daddy that. She hated them.

"Stupid bitches," she thinks. "Why would any sane whore work so hard just to give her money to some clown-ass pimp? Fuck that. That money could be pulsing through my veins right now. Must be nice to be so mutha fuckin' smooth that you can charm a bitch into working to feed your ass...clothe your ass. Must be one sweet mutha fuckin' ride..."

Inspiration strikes as she begins to think about just how nice a gig pimping must really be. She could smoke crack and shoot heroin all day and all she'd have to do in return is protect her whores. "I can do that! I protect my damn self all day everyday. It ain't no easy task, either. These mutha fuckas try to catch a bitch slipping every chance they get."

She hops down from the rusty fence and takes off in the direction of the neighborhood. The gears in her head work furiously as she calculates both her brilliant plan and all the rewards she will surely reap. She races past overflowing dumpsters, crying babies, city buses, and an illegal craps game. She sees none of those things. Her focus and attention are on her new business venture.

"Hey, Chitty! Chitty! Bitch, don't you hear me calling you? Oh, that's how you goin' be? I was bout to pay your crackhead ass to hook me up with one of them toothless brain drains, but fuck you now! I'll spend my money elsewhere."

Somewhere in the recesses of her brain, she hears this one-sided exchange and thinks to herself, Why would I suck your nasty dick when I can get some dummy to do it for me? Then she spots her. The one woman in the neighborhood that's worse off than she is. Sure, Chitty was a crackhead, but Little Red Riding Hood was a stupid crackhead.

"Hey, Red! What you up to tonight?" she asks as she sidles up to the unsuspecting Little Red.

"Girl, not a damn thing. Jonesing like a motha fucka, though. These dudes ain't tryna do nothin' to help me out.   I need my shit, Chitty. I don't know what I'ma do if things don't turn around tonight."

Music to Chitty's ears.

"I was having a bad night, too, 'til I came up with my idea. That shit worked like a charm, too."

"Chit, please tell me what it is. I need some help. Hook me up, bitch."

"All you gotta do is go fuck one of these young dope boys for money to get your hit."

"Bitch, that ain't new! What the fuck you think my ass been out here tryna do all night? I been walking these streets practically begging these dudes to fuck me. I told you that shit ain't working."

"Naw, bitch, you doin' it wrong. You can't beg mutha fuckas; you gotta make them beg you."

"How I'ma do that, Chitty?" Little Red asks, scratching her lice-infested weave. Her face bears an unexpected air of innocence.

"It's all about confidence, bitch. If you think you're the sexiest whore in the world, so will they. Dudes'll be coming out of the woodwork tryna fuck you. You might be desperate and at your wit's end, but you can't let them know that. You gotta be confident."

"Well, it's not exactly easy being confident when you ain't washed your ass or shampooed your hair in a week. Ms. Johnson at the halfway house used to let the whores come in there to get clean and fresh a couple times a week, but now you gotta pay her. You know that bitch charging fifteen cents a day now?"

"Is that so? You know, I just so happen to have fifteen cents left to my name. I already been to Ms. Johnson's today so I'm good. I could lend it to you...if you want."

"And what do I have to give you in return? Bitch, don't say you want me to eat your pussy, 'cause I don't swing that way."

"No, nothing like that. I'm all dick, all the time myself. Come on. Let's talk about it on the way to the halfway house."

And that, my friends, is how Chitty Chitty Bang Bang finally got her ass off that fence and turned her fifteen cents into a dollar. For several years to come.

I hope you enjoyed my impromptu story. I really did come on here with something completely different to bitch about. I guess the gods got tired of my ass complaining and decided to give me something different to say.

I am truly grateful to them.